


a golden day at April's end

by brittaunfiltrd



Series: Up the Hill [1]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Content Warning: season 4 episode 13 of The Magicians, Fix-It, Friendship, Fruit & fruit metaphors, Gen, Holding Hands, Love, Multi, References to Suicide, References to suicidal ideation, Stubbornness, Uncharitable perspectives as a result of grief & self-loathing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 09:17:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18635236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brittaunfiltrd/pseuds/brittaunfiltrd
Summary: Alice holds a cup. Penny asks some questions.





	1. An Epilogue.

Eliot's hand is white-knuckled in hers through all of it: the singing, the burning, the hiss of the fire.

 

Alice clutches him back. She's probably hurting him; her grip is a lot stronger than it used to be, but he isn't protesting, and she has to cling to something. She is being very still outside because there is a lot happening _inside_  and it would be a bad idea to do anything with it when her first and ongoing instinct is to murder absolutely everyone in the immediate vicinity and the rest of the world besides, just for still being here when the first real friend she had is dead. Alice takes a slow breath. She has to wait herself out. She knows that, now. So she's just going to hold Eliot's hand.

 

She'd thought she cracked Quentin's mug earlier. She'd been laying out her clothing and saw it on her nightstand, couldn't help picking it up - she keeps thinking about Quentin's face; the way he seemed calmer, the way he started smiling again, even after the Monster abducted Julia. She can see, now, what she didn't then: the calmness was knowing himself a little better, having something up their sleeve, yes, from the trip to Brakebills South, but also, relief, having finally hit his limit.

 

And none of them noticed, they were all so scattered, distracted, but: she feels so idiotic, in retrospect, like she never read everything she could get her hands on about Bipolar II and co-morbidity and treatment options, after he told her. Like she never memorized lists of warning signs and management tips; she just gave in to that abrupt switch in their relationship, gave in to Quentin having apparently decided to be an absolute bastard and get back together with her as some sort of warped _goodbye gift_ , and she was so overjoyed, selfish, to be forgiven, to be let back in, and she hadn't paid _attention_ - she'd set the mug back down as gently as she could and fled the room. It's tucked between her feet, now, safely out of the way.

 

Julia is a statue beside her, radiating a weird heat, posture impeccable, staring out into the trees.

 

That stupid fucking song is stuck in Alice's head. Their Penny was right, three years and a hundred lifetimes ago in Fillory, trying to make her laugh and help her get her head straight at the same time: Quentin has the  _worst_ taste in music. It's only a small fraction of the screaming mess of - how could he why didn't I why didn't Julia why didn't Penny pick up on it Quentin has terrible wards what can I do now what do I do now what am I _going_ to do now - in her head, but it's the most irritating.

 

Eventually, Eliot draws a loud, ragged breath.

 

"Alice."

 

Alice really would prefer to avoid eye contact right now, but she angles her face in his direction in acknowledgement.

 

"Alice."

 

She relents, turning to face him, teeth dug into her cheek. 

 

Eliot looks different. Well, he's actually got an expression for the first time Alice has seen since he came back. Mostly he's just looked vacant, maybe a little queasy; that might have been the painkillers, but Alice doubts it. Now, though, he's furious: eyes glassy, lips pressed together, cheeks flushed.

 

"Alice. No. Absolutely not, no."

 

Oh. Well, good. She'd hoped someone else was here with her.

 

"No," she agrees.

 

"No," Julia echoes. She stirs, touches her fingertips, lightly, to the back of Alice's right hand. Alice turns her hand over and threads their fingers together.

 

Eliot holds Alice's gaze while he lifts her hand to his mouth to seal their agreement. Alice seals it with Julia in turn. Julia stands, pocketing her cards, and comes to take Eliot's left hand, which he pulls, oddly reluctantly, out of his coat pocket.

 

Julia says, low, "time to get off the couch." Eliot nods, and she kisses his knuckles.

 

After a beat, Eliot gently withdraws. He hesitates, puts his hand back in his pocket, hesitates again, and brings out a peach. Alice supposes there's odder things to bring to a funeral than a snack, but it's odd all the same. He swallows hard, turning it in his fingers, and then brings it to his nose.

 

His hand is abruptly crushing on hers, face crumpling, shoulders hunching. Julia sits beside him, and he straightens up, lifts his chin, takes a bite.

 

Then he offers it, slowly, to Alice. She's wrung out; she can't muster any curiosity. She'll ask later; for now, it seems important, so she accepts it, she takes a bite, she offers it to Julia. Julia does seem to understand: she gives Eliot a sad look that he avoids assiduously. Well, all right, maybe she'll just ask Julia.

 

They pass it back and forth until they're down to the pit. Eliot pulls out his silky black pocket square (Alice feels a dull pang of affection; Eliot _would_ take his widow's weeds to the absolute limit) and wraps the pit up, tucking it back into his pocket. 

 

Julia stretches out her hand and covers theirs, and then there's some jostling. Alice very carefully picks up the mug, rests it in her lap. They wind up scooting close on their log, hands knit together across Eliot's mangled belly. Eliot's shoulder is surprisingly pleasant to lean on, Alice finds. He's very warm. He smells nice. He smells like Quentin.

 

She feels absurdly swamped with relief: they can do this. What's a trip to the underworld to retrieve Quentin Coldwater? Certainly nothing as difficult as being _without_ him. And the decision is made: all they have to do now is carry it out. Alice shuts her eyes, and for a brief merciful while, all she thinks about is the warmth of their hands around hers, the sweetness in her mouth, the smoke coming up off the crackling fire in the night.


	2. A Prologue.

 

Quentin looks away, for a moment, but he - he loves them. He wants to see them as much as he can. God, he just doesn't want to see them like _this_.

 

"Penny. I don't - this, um, this sucks. Why are we - how is this supposed to help? I don't like this."

 

Penny sighs, sounding more like himself than he has since Quentin got off the elevator. " _No one_ fucking likes this, Quentin."

 

"No, I know, I - I just. ..." He trails off, drifting closer, out of reach of Penny's hand, circling the fire to stand in front of them. Eliot is gripping Alice's hand like it's the only thing holding him upright. Alice has her right cheek drawn between her teeth; she looks remote, withdrawn, so probably she's about three minutes from boiling over in one way or another.

 

Quentin can't even look at Julia. He knows that expression. He's caused it before. It's been six years since he saw it last and he hates it - himself - as much now as he did then.

 

Over his shoulder, Quentin asks, "Can I, um. I made a mistake. I shouldn't have - God, I fucked up. Can I, like, Orpheus and Eurydice myself? People have done it before, right? They -"

 

"No. I tried. Believe me. I tried every damn thing I could. If it were that easy - it's not. It's not something you can do for yourself." Penny looks at his feet.

 

Quentin really doesn't want to start crying again. Fuck.

 

He turns back to Eliot, who is lifting Alice's hand to his lips. 

 

"Um."

 

Alice is turning her right hand over, twining her fingers with Julia's. Alice is turning to Julia and holding her eyes as she kisses the back of Julia's hand. 

 

"Uh. What - what are - "

 

Behind him, Penny is quietly cracking up. "Well, I've seen this happening in your head, I didn't really expect to see it in real life." At his wet-eyed glare, Penny sobers. He comes to stand at Quentin's side. "Dude, I really don't know. This is pretty tame compared to some of the shit the other librarians have mentioned seeing, you know."

 

Before them, Julia is saying something quietly that makes Eliot's mouth tremble, and kissing his knuckles.

 

Eliot takes his hand back, puts it in his coat pocket, and brings out a peach. For a long moment, the problem is only that Quentin can't breathe, and then Eliot is crumpling into himself, the peach pressed to his mouth, and everything in Quentin is abruptly overwhelmed with panic. 

 

"Penny, please. There has to be, fucking, fucking _something_ \- I have to fix this. Fuck. I just need to talk to them. I need to talk to Eliot, please." He's crying again after all, fists clutched in his hair, stomach roiling.

 

"I know. I know the feeling." Penny looks away, across the clearing. "How was that hot chocolate, earlier?"

 

Quentin turns on him and tries very hard to not, just, like, fling himself at Penny in hysterical fury; apparently when you make your worst decision to date after, like, years of increasingly stupid decisions, the afterlife involves irrelevant questions that make you want to strangle someone.

 

"I don't know, Penny, it wasn't even hot. I didn't drink it. Who likes tepid chocolate?"

 

"You didn't try it?"

 

"No, Jesus, what the fuck.  It was gross, there was a _skin_ on it! I - god. What does it matter?"

 

Penny shrugs, and asks, "Do you have your answer now?"

 

Quentin covers his burning face, says, muffled, "yeah." God, he's so ashamed. He was just so tired, of everything, just wanted to stop. Well, he's got the desire to go on, now, much good it'll do him.

 

"Would you do it differently, if you could?" 

 

"What kind of - _yes_. But you said I can't." Quentin looks at him, pleadingly. Penny shakes his head.

 

Quentin turns back to the little group beside the fire and they're - sharing the peach, now? That's a little weird. Quentin sniffles. They've huddled up, Julia's right hand tucked into Eliot's elbow, Alice's left hand dwarfed in his, her head resting on his shoulder, Quentin's mended cup cradled on her lap.

 

Alice takes very tidy bites of the peach when it comes back her way, always making that little discomfited moue at the stickiness on her fingers; she's angry, still, but not chewing on herself, at least. Julia looks better now: she has more color back. She looks, though, um. A little like she's about to steal a magic knife and kidnap a would-be god. Eliot's eyes are glazed over, his mouth soft, like they get when he's been going for a really long time and his body has realized he's a primate that needs to lie down and rest and is about four minutes from collapsing.

 

Quentin swipes at his face with the sleeve of his hoodie and looks around. God, where is Margo? Margo will know Eliot needs to lie down.

 

Julia says, meditatively, licking her fingers, "well, it's not like I don't know my way around down there, anyway." 

 

Wait, what? 

 

Alice says, very quiet, "I only remember bits and pieces."

 

Eliot sighs, blinks slowly, staring past Quentin into the fire. "We'll figure it out. We always do. We'll get him back."

 

Oh, shit.

 

"Oh, shit."

 

"Fucking _finally_ ," Penny says, relieved, slinging his arm around Quentin's shoulders, shaking him a little.

 

Quentin turns to him, wordless; Penny is smiling.

 

"Like I said, brother. It's not something you can do for yourself."

**Author's Note:**

> Well. Here we are: the first time a source material made me so angry I had to actually write a thing - an ongoing series of things - and show it to the internet. This is the weirdest thing I've ever done.


End file.
